World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Margaret gave a bitter smile. Ships sink, people die, only those slogans float forever on the sea, like oil slicks, covering the countless bones beneath.

She slowly stood up and walked to the window. London was shrouded in a gray haze of rain, the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral appearing and disappearing in the distance through the rain. The city had endured more than two years of war; food rations were dwindling, young people were dwindling, but the war continued.

How long will this last? And how much more will we have to pay?

Margaret didn't know. She was just a laundress who had lost her husband and had just lost her son. Her world was small, consisting only of this street, this house, and the smiles of her family in her memories.

But at this moment, in this small world, she felt a deep, chilling anger. Not towards the Germans—they too were losing a son. Not towards the sailors—they had done their duty.

It was directed at those who decided to let these young people die.

Those people who draw circles on maps with pencils in warm meeting rooms.

Nine o'clock in the evening, at the study at 10 Downing Street.

Asquith sat alone at his desk, with three documents spread out in front of him.

The first document is the full report from the Admiralty, which includes detailed operational records of HMS Queen Elizabeth, radar data, and survivor testimonies.

The second document was a secret telegram from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, summarizing the reactions of various countries to the sinking of the HMS Hood: Germany's jubilation, France's concern, Merika's cautious attention, and Lanfang's "regretful" statement.

The third document is a public statement drafted by himself, which will be released tomorrow.

The fire in the fireplace was dying down, but he was too lazy to add more. The room was getting colder, but he didn't feel it. Weariness, like a soaked coat, clung tightly to his body and mind.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

"Come in."

His wife, Margot, came in carrying a tray with a pot of hot tea and some biscuits. "You haven't eaten all day, Herbert."

Asquith managed a weak smile: "Thank you, darling. But I have no appetite."

Margot placed the tray on the table, walked behind him, and gently placed her hands on his shoulders. "I've heard about it. The Hood...and so many young people."

"Fourteen hundred and eighteen people." Asquith closed his eyes. "Their average age is less than twenty-five. They all have parents, and some even have wives and children. Starting tomorrow, the death notices will be delivered to their homes."

"War is cruel."

"No." Asquith suddenly opened his eyes. "Margot, this isn't the cruelty of war; this is our failure. The failure of those of us who sit in our offices making decisions. We underestimated the enemy, overestimated ourselves, and then made the young pay the price."

Margot was silent for a moment. "So what are you going to do?"

Asquith picked up the draft statement. "Tomorrow I will tell the nation that HMS Hood's sacrifice was heroic, the spirit of the Royal Navy lives on, and we will continue to fight."

"and then?"

"Then," Asquith put down his manuscript, "I'm going to Melica."

Margot looked at him in surprise: "Now? During the war?"

“Precisely because it’s wartime,” Asquith stood up and walked to the window. “Margot, we had a four-hour meeting at the Admiralty today. The conclusion is clear: the British Empire cannot win this war alone. We need allies, we need real, powerful allies.”

"What about France? What about Russia?"

"France shed its last drop of blood at Verdun, and Russia itself is on the verge of collapse." Asquith smiled bitterly. "No, what we need is industrial strength, shipbuilding capacity, and a continuous supply of resources. Only Merica can provide these."

"But the people of Meilika have always been unwilling to get directly involved."

"Then let them intervene indirectly." Asquith's voice became firm. "Loans, supplies, technology, ships—any conditions are negotiable, as long as they're willing to give them. Even... the arrangements for the post-war order."

Margot understood the deeper meaning in her husband's words. "You're going to use the future of the empire as collateral?"

"The future of the Empire is already mortgaged, my dear." Asquith turned to look at her, his eyes filled with deep weariness. "Every day, we lose thousands of men in France. Every day, our national debt increases by millions of pounds. Every day, the Germans are one step closer to victory. If we don't change, if we don't find a new way out, the Empire may have no future."

The study fell silent, save for the occasional crackling of the charcoal in the fireplace.

Margot went to her husband and took his hand. "You'll be criticized, Herbert. The opposition will say you sold the empire to the Merikas, that you frantically begged for help after your defeat."

"Let them talk," Asquith said softly but with unusual firmness. "A hundred years from now, history books will either say 'Asquith saved England in crisis' or 'Asquith incompetently destroyed the empire.' But at least I will make a choice instead of waiting for fate to take its course."

He walked to his desk, picked up a pen, and added a paragraph to the end of the statement.

"...In these difficult times, we must unite as one and look at the world with new eyes. The British Empire stands with all nations that cherish freedom and justice in the face of darkness. Tomorrow may be difficult, the road may be long, but as long as faith remains, hope endures."

After finishing writing, he put down his pen and said to Margot, "Call my secretary. I need to send a telegram to Washington, personally inviting President Wilson to meet with me."

"Now?"

"Now," Asquith nodded, "every minute is precious."

After Margot left, Asquith sat back down in his chair. He picked up a photograph from the table—it had been taken during the previous royal naval review, showing HMS Hood leading the Spithead Strait, its ship adorned with signal flags, sailors lined up on the deck, and sunlight shining on the brand-new hull.

So beautiful, so powerful.

Now it lies on the seabed of the North Sea, a steel tomb.

Asquith gently stroked the photograph and whispered, "I'm sorry."

I'm sorry, Major General Wellesley. I'm sorry, Colonel Tovey. I'm sorry, Corporal Miller. I'm sorry to everyone who believed the Reich would protect you.

Then he straightened his back and pressed the doorbell on the table.

The secretary pushed open the door and entered: "Prime Minister?"

"Record it." Asquith's voice regained its usual composure. "To His Excellency Woodrow Wilson, President of the United Kingdom: At this historic moment, on behalf of the Government of the British Empire, I cordially invite you to a high-level meeting to discuss the current international situation and future cooperation between our two countries. Given the urgency of the situation, I intend to visit Washington in person, at a time to be determined by your side. Our shared values ​​and the seriousness of the challenges we face make this meeting not only necessary but also urgent. I look forward to your positive response."

The secretary quickly took notes. "What encryption level is required?"

"Highest priority. Send via the Navy's dedicated line." Asquith paused. "Also, notify the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to begin preparations for the visit immediately. The delegation should be small, but should include experts from the Navy, Finance, and Industry."

"Yes, Prime Minister."

After the secretary left, Asquith went to the window and drew back the curtains. The rain had stopped, and a few stars peeked through the London night sky. In the distance, Big Ben chimed; it was ten o'clock at night.